The Existence of Life Without A Soul
by Himokal
Summary: Edward's internal monologue and debate on whether or not to Change Bella. Takes place some time between Eclipse and Breaking Dawn


**What is life without a soul…**

In all my 108 years, never have I found someone such as she. One whose existence marks the beginning of an age and the end of a dynasty. One whose very persona cannot be defined. The smell of the thirst, the dry ache, the heart stopping tightness of chest. The difficulty created from the desire, the epitome of fragrances, the hot throb associated with a satiated exertion of emotion.

The existence of my kind has been a battle scar of misfortune, drawn out and quick, slow yet sudden. We have fought tooth and nail, diamond hard skin to venom. We have dealt with humans just as easily as we have destroyed them, and who could deny us this right? They who walk and fear the very creations they have created? Those whose years count not for a blink in our sight?

The diet my family and I have chosen is not one that complements our impulses but contradicts our very base desires. The desire to survive. This desire is found in even the youngest of those who walk the endless night, those whose defences are as impenetrable as the touch of a butterfly against sheets of steel. Those whose memories span eons and centuries; decades and generations.

Since the Spanish influenza I have traversed this hallowed globe that we call earth, and in all my 108 years no mark could be sighted as close. No other feminine of the species, ageless or mortal, could encapsulate the beauty; the beauty that appeals to ease the thirst. Though I, a sentinel in the underdeveloped, could snatch that which is in my power to take, yet still I hold firm. Why you ask?

What is the capture without the fun of the chase? What is the product without the joy of the invention? The lion has fallen for the lamb, how paltry and insubstantial a love? But yet this has occurred, that which God, in whatever form he may be, has created to be hunted is now an object of desire. My kind have wallowed in the immortality that has been given, have bathed in the righteousness of the blood they take. Yet I do not, yet I **CAN NOT**. I cannot take that which is not in honourable conscience to take, to snuff the soul and body of another as easily as a human does a fly, to watch that which I now hold most precious never obtain that rosy glow, never smile and move in that unstable grace.

Isabella, **_God is my oath_** , without rightful intent and convention shall I never revoke that which has been given to these underdeveloped that shuffle and stroll their ways through meagre existences. Existences which tell nothing of the ages and hold not a fraction to that which might be mine in a peaceful existence, to that which could see the birth and death of nations, the evolution of species' and creations.

From the brightest sunlight, to the barest hint of the moons light, my kind languishes in the power that has been given. Very few care for the cultivation of that which satisfies them but care only for rush of the hunt and the appeasement in the sport. The sport that must end in death. Like thieves they come, pick and steal the plucking of their bodies' desires. Whilst yet the barest hint of a chilly wind could infect that which is required, those whose distain spreads to those of us who are as unlike to them as the ground to the sky, but even to those of them who are among their very species.

Long and far I have tread across this dirt-covered globe, often with little but a transient humour and unforgiving bloodlust. I have slaughtered, in their 10's and in their 100's, these near blind pathetic excuses for beings. And now, after all of that time, I too have fallen for the very thing I have often sought to kill? Once before I would have thought this in capable, would have demeaned and challenged the very meaning of existence.

But that is no longer the case. I too now find solace in the warmth of soft skin and the caress of inquisitive fingers. I too have come to relish the thought of my very own "La Tua Cantante" One whose very blood sings to me, in a symphony that is composed not of violins and cellos but of blood and thirst, a heart wrenching saga that cannot be belittled for the pain in the orchestration but must be present and honoured for the beauty of the masterpiece.

So yes, many of my kind would argue why must I not appease my desires, but not I. I have found solace in the life I do not take and joy in the pleasure it has given.


End file.
